


Those Left Behind

by BernardTheWise



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Christmas, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Post-Battle of Hogwarts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-14
Updated: 2020-12-14
Packaged: 2021-03-11 04:01:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,619
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28068990
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BernardTheWise/pseuds/BernardTheWise
Summary: A short story about Dennis Creevey as he returns home for the first Christmas without his brother.
Kudos: 3





	Those Left Behind

Those Left Behind

“See you Dennis, have a good Christmas”. Waiting just inside the doors of Kings Cross Station, Dennis Creevey nodded farewells to his schoolmates and their parents that streamed past him scattering homeward under the steady rain, eager to start the Christmas holidays. 

The bustling flow of Hogwarts students around him sparked a sudden, vivid memory of the night of the battle, when he had emerged from the picture frame into the dimly lit cellar of the Boar’s Head. A claustrophobic line of tense, silent students, shuffled nervously toward the door, panic lurking below a very thin veneer of outward calm. 

Dennis could picture the oppressive interior of the pub, with its sour smell of stale butterbeer, miasma of exotically fragrant pipe-smoke and the dark wooden paneling walls, smoke-stained almost black; and then there was a hand plucking at his shoulder. 

Colin was squeezed into a small corner at the side of the picture frame tunnel, his face was tight, sort of stretched and his eyes gave a look that was intensely serious. 

“Look after them.” he’d whispered in a voice that was curiously deep before he was angrily hushed into silence by a furious-looking Argus Filch who was marshalling the students. Even now, Dennis didn’t really understand what Colin had meant, it seemed a curious choice of words. However, under Filch’s scowling stare, he didn’t feel he could reply, besides which, more students were coming through the picture frame and carrying him away from his brother. Dennis merely nodded back an acknowledgement as the press of bodies carried him away. 

“Look after them.” were the last words Dennis heard from his brother. 

A sleepless night on the uneven lounge floor in a house that belonged to a tiny old witch followed; listening intently at the distant explosions and crack of curses until they eventually died away, desperately curious to know what was going on.

Dennis and Colin had always scoffed derisively at sentimental songs on the radio that spoke of the pain of heartbreak, they were all so sickeningly melodramatic. However, at the moment he stumbled back into the Great Hall at Hogwarts in the pale light of morning and saw his brother’s lifeless body, pathetically small on the cold stone floor, he had been shocked at the actual physical hurt it caused. It had been like a terrible rending within him, as if something savage and relentless within his ribcage was indeed tearing his insides apart. As time passed, the pain had subsided until it was now just a dull ache, a hollowness that was sometimes suddenly painful and intense, sometimes hardly noticeable, but always present.

At the thought of Christmas, this first Christmas without his brother, the familiar hollow ache bloomed and lurched within his gut. Just seeing the smiles on the faces of the families that flooded past him made him feel desperately alone and separate. Somehow set apart from “normal life”. 

The journey home for the Christmas holidays had always been a joyful time, full of laughter, joking and anticipation of the festivities to come. But now, after the battle, things had changed; everything had changed. Dennis had spent the time on the Hogwarts express staring out of the rain-spattered windows, lost in a sort of dark blankness and hoping no-one would speak to him.

Around him, the flow of Hogwarts students was thinning. Amongst those cheerful, happy faces, Dennis occasionally saw those who had lost friends or family in the Battle. They stood out so clearly to him, looking awkward and self-conscious, as if they had found themselves at a party, but they didn’t know anybody there. Dennis wondered if he looked the same to them.

“Hello love, sorry we’re late, have you been waiting long?” His mum’s reedy, piping voice, seemed to convey her internal fragility. There she stood, her bright, floral-printed raincoat framing her kind, sad face, watery eyes and her concerned, unconvincing smile. Behind her, his father shuffled over, nodding his wordless welcome. 

Dennis returned his mum’s hesitant hug, his dad patted him on the shoulder awkwardly and stooped to pick up Dennis’ luggage. 

A short tube ride and car journey later, they turned the corner into their street. At the sight of it’s aching familiarity, memories crowded into Dennis’ consciousness.

“Here we are!” His mum’s brittle cheerfulness had kept up the conversation throughout their journey home with a chattering small talk that Dennis was barely aware of, the dying of the car engine suddenly made the sound of her voice seem loud and grating. 

The house was bedecked in it’s Christmas finery, the familiar decorations in their usual places. Traditionally, his mum and dad had left the tree for the boys to erect and decorate when they returned from Hogwarts. It was a custom that seemed to signal the start of the Christmas celebrations. This time however, Dennis spotted that the tree was not only in place on the table in the corner of the lounge, but decorated with it’s lights twinkling in a rainbow of colours. 

Without a word Dennis walked into the room and over to the tree. A range of emotions washed over him like a wave that tumbled him around and around until he didn’t know what he was feeling, just that same, intense, hollow ache within.

The tree was an old-fashioned silver one with tinsel branches. Mr & Mrs Creevey had been given it not long after getting married, by an aunt who had replaced it with one that looked greener and generally more tree-like. Every Christmas Mrs Creevey had threatened to buy a new tree and every time she had been howled down with protesting sons who declared that “It wouldn’t be the same!” if the tinsel tree was replaced. 

Dennis looked at it now; all the decorations, beads and bunting that adorned it could not disguise the fact that the tree was looking very threadbare. 

His eye was drawn to a tinplate robin. It was crudely painted and had glitter clumsily smeared onto its wings. The bird was mounted onto a small spring that had a clip on the bottom which made it look like it was perched upright onto the branch. One of the earliest memories of Christmas was decorating the tree with Colin and hanging baubles onto the branches. Dennis remembered that he was so small, he couldn’t reach higher than the lowest of them, but enthusiastically and determinedly stuck to the task. When they stood back to admire their work, Colin had burst into peals of laughter. Dennis had been so focussed on getting the decorations onto the tree that he’d clipped the robin on upside down. 

Dennis remembered feeling embarrassed and hot, humiliating tears had welled up, but Colin bent down with a kindly smile and hugged him “You clever boy Dennis! It’s not a Christmas robin after all!” he had laughed “It’s more like a Christmas bat!” and so another tradition was born and every year since, the tinplate robin had hung upside down. 

After a moment of hesitation, Dennis reached for the upright robin, unclipped it and put it on upside down. The movement made a small shower of tinsel strands fall from the silver tree. 

Dennis looked over to where his mum was standing anxiously waiting to see if they had helped or hurt her son. “I hope you don’t mind us putting it up Dennis it’s just just that…”

“It’s fine.” Dennis said abruptly, cutting her short. He did not want to talk about it. Not now, maybe not at all. He bent and picked up the strands of tinsel from the carpet, aware that his mum was hurting just as much as he was, part of him wanting to comfort her, another part afraid of what might happen if he made himself that vulnerable. 

Dennis turned away from her, dropping the tinsel strands into the bin. He tried his best to give her an encouraging smile “I think we might need to get a new tree next year.” So many changes, what was one more? He picked up his cases and walked upstairs.

Passing the dining room, Dennis' eye was caught by a movement. In the centre of the mantlepiece there was a framed photo of Colin. In it, Colin was wearing his Hogwarts uniform with his tie at the usual peculiar angle and his curly hair in its familiar semi-wild state. The movement Dennis had seen was the figure in the photo. He recalled back in his first year at Hogwarts, Seamus Finnigan had taught Colin how to take “proper” magical photos and this informal image of Colin was the result. 

The image in the photo seemed to react to Dennis’ presence fixing him with a broad grin and looked as if it was about to say something. Dennis took a moment to appreciate just how young his brother looked, his face full of laughter, hope, innocence and good cheer. It somehow made the ache within even more intense. Dennis realised he would give anything to be able to talk to his brother right now.

Last Christmas, he and Colin had been lying low, avoiding the gangs of snatchers by living in a rather musty-smelling and mildewed mobile home which belonged to an elderly aunt. It was located in the back corner of an out of season, nearly deserted clifftop caravan park overlooking the grey-green sea. They stayed indoors during the daytime, playing board games and reading musty-smelling books, only going out after dark to buy food from the fat, glum man who ran the local shop. Occasionally their stores were enhanced with deliveries from friends sent by owl. 

The monotony of the existence was such that, when the gang of snatchers burst through the door and dragged them away, Dennis was almost glad to be away from the musty tin box. The novelty was short-lived though, the snatchers taunted them and treated them cruelly, but the brothers had each other to help withstand the jeers and derision.

Upon being returned to Hogwarts, the mistreatment continued. The new regime, led by the Carrows and enforced by a bunch of ugly thugs, exulted in bullying and humiliating the students, those outside of Slytherin anyway. Muggleborns suffered most, rumours of a new “educational facility” abounded, a place for the “Mudbloods”, well away from Hogwarts which would become a pure-blood school. Throughout this, Dennis and Colin did their best to keep a low profile and help each other to simply survive. 

Since the battle, teams of wizards had worked tirelessly to repair the massive damage incurred during the conflict. There were still a number of places, where particularly violent spells had gouged deep furrows in the masonry. The spells had been so powerful, that the damage resisted all attempts to repair them. It didn't matter though, Hogwarts seemed to wear the battle scars proudly, a permanent display of its defiance.

Even though Hogwarts had looked much the same, everything now felt different somehow, fragile, delicate . The hurt and heartbreak were almost tangible beneath the surface normality. The yawning absence of departed friends or family weighed heavily on both student and staff alike. 

With the exception of Colin and Dennis, the Creevey family were all muggles. This meant that Colin's funeral had been a muggle one. The deaths at Hogwarts had been spun out to the muggle media as a terrorist attack on a private school. Ministry of Magic officials worked hard to keep the story from being too widely reported and, with the help no doubt of clever subtle confundus charms hidden within the muggle television reports, it soon faded from the news as if it had never happened. 

After the funeral, at the wake, Dennis’s uncle Jason sidled over, his plate piled high with finger food and his breath sour with yeasty beer fumes. 

“Terrible business Dennis, terrible.” He muttered in a low voice and shaking his head. Dennis got the impression that his uncle was surreptitiously checking around to see if he was being observed. 

Dennis and Colin had always thought of Uncle Jason as funny, charming and excitingly reckless with his nephews on the few occasions when he took them out for day trips. The boys had always looked forward to his visits, but right now, something about his shifty manner was making Dennis’ skin crawl.

“I still can’t believe it Dennis.” Uncle Jason continued, shaking his head, “I mean, a terrorist attack on a boarding school! It defies belief. Why would they do that?” 

Dennis made no response, his feelings of unease increased, he knew somehow that his uncle had sensed that there was more to the story than what had been reported and regarded Dennis as an easy way to get to the truth. 

“Look Dennis,” Uncle Jason continued, glancing around conspiratorially and leaning close, “nobody seems to be able to tell me the details of what happened, but you were there, weren’t you? So tell me, what really happened?” 

Dennis felt a sudden, hot wave of angry disgust surge within him. His fingertips tingled with magic and he momentarily wished he had his wand with him to deliver a stinging hex on his uncle, he imagined the shock on his face as the hex hit him and enjoyed momentary satisfaction from picturing his uncle’s body flying through the air, spinning like a doll. 

Without a wand, Dennis struggled to resist the urge to simply punch his uncle in the face and wondered if he should just turn his back and walk away. The idea that Uncle Jason was trying to reduce Colin’s sacrifice to the subject of mere gossip enraged him to a level that surprised himself. 

Fighting to keep his voice steady whilst being pointedly loud enough to carry to the other guests, Dennis replied. “You want me to tell you all about how Colin died? Right here at his funeral wake?” He could hear the buzz of conversions all around him suddenly die away.

His uncle’s eyes flashed wide in panic and he squirmed as the judgmental eyes of the room fell upon him. “No no! Sorry, no that’s not what I meant at all!” emitting a nervous laugh. 

“Really?” Dennis continued in a mildly enquiring tone, he also felt the stares of those gathered and witnessed his uncle’s mortification. He felt strangely exultant, euphoric as he realised the power he now had over him, he had the power at this moment to shame him mercilessly in front of his family, to teach him a lesson that he would never forget. 

Even as this possibility occurred to him, an image of the Carrows flashed into his mind and it occurred to him that this would be the sort of thing they would do. The tingling rush of the magic and his anger subsided; he wasn’t like them, he would never be like them. 

“I’m very sorry,” Dennis said in a stilted voice, meeting the desperate, pleading stare of his uncle, “I must have misunderstood.” and he walked away his face reddening, pulse racing and rage still roaring like a lion within him. 

Since that time, anger had been his friend. He found he could brood upon it, nurturing it until the aching void within him was filled with a cold rage. At least the terrible hollowness was gone.

Dennis had been in his room for a while, lying on his bed, staring at the ceiling whilst only half listening to music through his headphones. He knew his mum would be downstairs fretting about him; over-analysing the changes in his personality, second guessing their decision to let him go back to Hogwarts, second guessing everything. He knew he could ease their worries by simply going downstairs and putting on a brave face, but he was so tired of being “fine” he just couldn’t summon the energy to get off the bed. This made him feel bad, but his weariness and the aching pressure within him, seemed to rob him of any ability to do anything about it. 

From his window, Dennis had watched the sun go down in a fiery, winter sunset some time earlier, its intense glow had crept across his bedroom wall and now its dim residual luminosity could just about be seen above the trees on the horizon. 

There were footsteps and the snap of a light switch on the landing outside his room and his door opened. Bright light spilled into his room and Dennis realised how dark it had become. 

His mother’s face appeared around the door, she saw Dennis and blinked, Surprised to find him in a darkened room. 

“Why are you lying around in the darkness?” Her voice reflected her anxiety. “Is everything alright?”

“Erm...Yeah.” Dennis mumbled, removing his headphones and sitting upright on the bed. “I hadn’t realised it had got so dark.” 

“Oh. Alright.” His mum’s short response somehow conveyed the depth of concern she was feeling and Dennis’s conscience pricked him. 

He stretched and scratched his head idly. 

“Shall I?” his mum asked before snapping the light on, causing Dennis to screw his face up against the glare. “Just to let you know that supper is just about ready.” she paused. “Are you sure you’re alright?”

“Yeah, fine.”

“Good...well, supper’s just about ready.”

Dennis’ irrational annoyance flared. “Yes, you just said that a second ago.” He replied, in a voice that was louder than he intended. “I’m coming now.” 

His mum hesitated, a look of surprised hurt on her face at Dennis’s response. She bobbed her head in a nervous nod and retreated, leaving Dennis sitting on the bed, cursing himself inwardly for letting his anger show.

On Saturdays, the Creeveys would all sit down to dinner together in the dining room. Dennis’s mum would cook a dish they all liked and she and dad would share a glass or two of wine. At the start of the meal, his dad would invariably propose a toast “To the Creeveys” and they’d all stand and clink their glasses together.

Even before he’d walked into the dining room, Dennis knew everything was wrong. On his way down the hall he’d glanced into the kitchen to see his parents breaking from a hug, his mum’s face red and tearstained. Dennis’s insides squirmed guiltily and the feeling of pressure built again. 

At the table things got no better. It was square, so when they were all seated, his mum and dad at his right and left, the empty place where Colin had sat made everything seem unbalanced and wrong. 

Dennis found his breathing was uneven, his heart thumping within his chest. The house was oppressively quiet. Opposite him, on the mantelpiece, the image of Colin in the frame was no longer grinning, but sombre and intense.

his mum fussed in with the dishes, her sudden sing-song chatter and fake cheerfulness grated on the stillness of the room. 

Dennis’s dad entered with the usual glass of squash for Dennis in one hand and a bottle of wine in the other, even he seemed distant and preoccupied. They all were on edge, the whole atmosphere in the room was brittle.

Dennis silently helped himself to a portion of his mum’s home made chilli. His favourite, but somehow it’s spicy scent had no appeal today. He longed to be able to say something, anything complimentary about it to his mum, who looked forlorn and miserable, but he simply could not summon the ability to speak. 

“A toast.” The silence was broken by the steady, quiet voice of his dad. He stood and raised his glass. “To the Creeveys.” he said, voicing the time-honoured salute, but this time, after a pause he continued, “and here’s to Colin.” His voice suddenly cracking and his round, honest face creasing with the effort of keeping it together. “The bravest…”

With his anger singing in his ears, Dennis let out a cynical-sounding bark of laughter before he was able to restrain himself. 

There was an awful stillness.

“Do you have something to say Dennis?” Dennis had rarely seen his dad get angry, he was the quiet, unflappable rock around which the family was built, but now, he could almost feel the hot fury in the deadly calm of his question.

Staring down at his food, Dennis’ felt his own anger blaze bright in response. His hands shook as he pushed himself back from the table and stood up, so he bunched his fists and leaned on them. 

Still not meeting his father’s eyes he almost whispered, “Brave? What was brave about getting himself killed? He wasn’t brave, he was just a kid! He might have known he was throwing his life away. It wasn’t brave at all, it was just... stupid!” He almost spat the last word out in his fury.

Rage coursed through his being causing him to shake with a terrible energy. He’d finally said the thing he’d needed to say for so long. Even now he knew it would be awfully hurtful for his parents to hear, but he felt things were happening around almost involuntarily.

“Now look Dennis,” his father began in a firm tone. “I know this has all been…”

“You don’t know ANYTHING!” Dennis shouted “Nobody knows what this has been like! Nobody has the slightest clue!” Dennis roared. He felt locked in now, he couldn’t go back and he was speaking almost without thinking, barreling down a road to who knows where? 

He was breathing in ragged gasps now, trying not to collapse into sobs “He was there! On the night of the battle as we were all getting away, he spoke to me, I thought he would follow along, but he went back!” Dennis had never told his parents the story about their passing encounter in the cellar of the Boar’s Head, and now he had begun the telling, his words seemed to be spilling out of him at an increasing pace, as if the pressure within him was forcing them out faster and faster. 

“He should have told me what he planned to do!” He wailed. “I could have told him not to go! I could have told a teacher! I could have dragged him away! I could even have gone with him, I could have helped!” His voice wretched and despairing. “I could have helped.” He repeated.

Deep inside himself, Dennis felt the crack in the wall that held back all the anger and the hate and the fear and the terrible guilt, widen and the wall itself crumble and collapse as Dennis voiced the unspoken, thought, the one thing he had concealed even from himself for so long. 

“Colin is dead. He died and it’s all my fault!” His cry becoming a howl of grief that came from deep within. A howl that could not be stopped, a cry that spoke of the rending pain of finding that small, still, figure on the floor of the great hall. 

Dimly, he was aware of arms around him. Hugging, stroking, hands grasping onto him as if for dear life. The grief poured out of him. He couldn’t have stopped it if he’d tried, but he didn’t want to fight it anymore, it was time. 

The unstoppable howl took all the breath from Dennis’ body, he almost felt as if he was about to die too, until, with an awful gasp, Dennis breathed again and his body was jolted with sobs, long-held tears pouring down his face. 

Gradually, he became more aware of his surroundings. His dad clung onto him, crying “My boy, my boy, my boy,” over and over again. His mum had wrapped her arms around his middle, face buried in his chest, weeping with a terrible heart-rending whimpers.

“Sorry Mum.” Dennis managed to blurt out between sobs, “I’m sorry for everything.” and the wracking grief took him again. 

His mum suddenly broke her hold and looked up at Dennis.

“No, no, no, no, no!” His mum kneaded his hands with an intense, earnest energy. “You mustn't ever think that Dennis! Not ever! Do you hear me?” Her face was wet and red, but a fierce fire blazed within her eyes. 

“None of this is your fault, none of it, do you understand?” She grasped his hands so tightly it almost hurt, “It was always that evil….” she searched for the right word, “that bastard V...V...Voldemort!” 

She paused, her features hardening at the mention of his name, “He brought so much misery into the world and I am so happy, so very happy that he's dead and finally gone” she concluded savagely. 

Dennis nodded, his sobs dying into juddering breaths. He felt empty, drained, but somehow without the hollowness that had burdened him for so long. What filled him now was warmth; a love for his family that had always been there, but had been masked by grief.

He raised himself up, his dad’s hug breaking, but his hand finding Dennis’s with a firm grasp. Dennis looked at his parents. Their grief etched across their faces by the track of their tears. He managed a shaky smile and a sudden, unexpected laugh took them all, before becoming more sobs once more.

Eventually, the crying faded and they laughed again at their reddened faces and puffy eyes. Nothing needed to be said, Dennis’ heart was full, a burden had been lifted and they seated themselves once more to carry on with their forgotten meal. 

A thought seemed to occur to Dennis’s dad and he rose once more and went to the cupboard, returning with an extra wine glass. He uncorked the bottle, poured a measure into it and handed it to Dennis. 

“Edward!” His mum’s outburst at her husband’s action was one of surprise, not scolding. In response, Mr Creevey smiled back and simply said,

“A toast.”

They all stood in a moment of silence, glasses raised. “Here’s to the Creeveys.” he said, his voice husky and tremulous. He turned to Colin’s picture on the mantelpiece. “Here’s to us all. To those that are no longer with us,” He nodded, almost bowed towards the photo of Colin who looked back at them, his face set and sombre. Mr Creevey turned back to the table, lookling at Dennis and his mum in turn. “And here,” He continued, his mouth was drawn downward into a tight bow, his chin dimpled “and here’s to those left behind,” whereupon he raised the glass to his mouth and drank deeply.

Dennis raised his glass and tasted the wine. It was cold and crisp yet fruity and rich in the mouth. Almost straight away the swoopy rush from the alcohol gave him a deliciously dizzying sensation behind his eyes. 

“Look after them” Colin’s words returned to him once more and he finally knew the meaning behind them. That night in the cellar of the Boars Head, Colin was not asking Dennis to look after his fellow students, he was asking him to look after Mum and Dad. He had known he was going to die in the conflict and yet still went back but not before asking Dennis to take care of them when he was gone.

The bravery of Colin to go into battle realising he’d face death, even when he could have escaped it, struck Dennis anew with breathtaking clarity and he had to take a moment to try and get his mind to encompass it all. 

Glancing up, his eyes were drawn to Colin’s photo and he met his brother’s gaze. Silently, as his parents chattered cheerfully across the table, Dennis vowed to his brother that he would indeed look after them. He would look after them always in his memory. 

From within the photo frame, Colin simply beamed.


End file.
